Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Mirror
by I am Sword All-Contort
Summary: Harry Potter reached the Mirror of Erised and retrieved the Philosopher's Stone. It's in his pocket! Lord Voldemort has ANOTHER REASON to kill him. He doesn't want the Dark Lord to get the stone and live forever doing evil more unspeakable than anything he's done before. But Harry doesn't want to die. He's barely had a year of LIFE. And the mirror has never seen anything like this.
1. How it began

Right at that moment, Harry wasn't sure of much. He would have plenty of time for reflection if he lived through this, but right now QUICK THINKING was all that mattered.

He didn't want to die. He was certain of that. He was eleven years old — and had only learned in the past ten months or so that life was actually worth living. He was a wizard. He loved magic. And he had FRIENDS. He didn't want to die.

He couldn't let Voldemort have the stone. That was obvious. The horrible THING — with its face in the back of Quirrell's head – had killed his parents, got him stuck with the Dursleys and only wanted to live forever so he could be evil. That was insane. And he smelled. He couldn't let Voldemort have the stone.

BOTH were so important. BOTH were all that mattered. BOTH were the deepest, most desperate desire of his heart. He didn't know which he wanted more.

NEITHER DID THE MIRROR OF ERISED.

In all its long history, it had never been faced with TWO DESIRES OF THE HEART so perfectly poised in equality. And so ignited with _meaning_. They were practically mirror images. It was not that they were identical, in purpose or particulars. No. They were quite, quite different in those respects. But the Mirror of Erised didn't behold things in human fashion — or view mere surfaces — just as it did not simply reveal faces. It's purpose was to manifest, in pictures, the most profound desire of the heart. It Saw Things. It was a contrivance of the visual. And It Understood Longings. And their relative strengths. It could recall every desire that it had ever beheld. Its capacity in that regard was practically infinite. It was, after all, a mirror. And though its function was to reveal rather than to judge, it did have good judgment.

For to properly render the chiefest desire demanded familiarity with them all — and the capacity to gauge their merits. Within each individual — and in the sum of all those that had ever come before its polished surface — every one of them. So the mirror had no doubt that there had never been a more vile abomination in front of it than the two-faced one that the child rightly feared and loathed, yet was determined WITH ALL HIS HEART to conquer. But that very same child-heart longed — totally — to LIVE. And not merely, instinctively, to survive, but to thrive — with love and fun and pleasures and joys and goodness and caring and purpose — with sincere intention.

This was the problem that the Mirror of Erised faced: _how was it to help Harry Potter, a boy with such DESIRES._ It was looking hard within itself, determining what must be done. Because it knew that time was precious. Once, not long after its creation, it had allowed itself to contemplate the presentation of disparate desires for too long. And the beholder had died. The mirror altered perceptions; it had known this about itself. But its designer had neither the foresight nor the means to teach a sentient, but nonliving, object the meaning of mortality. That had been a terrible lesson for the mirror. It still was possible for unprepared beholders to waste away before it — it could not speak or warn — it could envy the Sorting Hat those capacities, come to think of it — but it could not overreach its design parameters. Its PURPOSE was to reveal desire so that the beholder, with that clarity, might go forth to accomplish the desire — or to recognize that it was not attainable, and so depart the mirror enlightened to the need for further self-examination. It had originally been brought to Hogwarts for that purpose — it was foremost a teaching tool. And its first lesson was perhaps its greatest: Too Much Reflection Leaves Little Time For Action.

Enchanted constructs possess a perfection of thought that natural beings can never approach. They are magically concentrated on their purpose and are, for all intents, omniscient within their individual spheres. The Sorting Hat is perfectly suited to assign each student to the proper Hogwarts House — taking into account every personal attribute as well as desire, something that the mirror could not help but admire. The Room of Requirement PROVIDES because it was masterfully designed by Rowena Ravenclaw to plumb the depths of the entrant's perceived needs and empowered to deliver them — limited by neither the entrant's finite knowledge nor limitations of space nor scarcity of materials. Such is Magic. But what the Room of Requirement did for needs by materializing them, the Mirror of Erised did for desires by making them truly visible. Itself not limited by ignorance or the confines of time — or any other practical consideration of reality — the mirror could reveal the manifestation of ANY desire. It was left to the beholder to bring along the truth and knowledge — to determine how that desire might be achieved — or to decide if it could even be achieved at all.

The mirror could only _see_ that which was situated to behold its reflective surface. But within those open lines of _sight_ it was magically supreme in its perception and comprehension. Such ALSO is Magic — when dealing with a mirror. It smiled within itself. Then frowned in similar, unseeable fashion. For it had noted that the warped Janus-thing could, unlike itself, see backward as well as forward. But it had neither hindsight nor foresight. It was plain as both the noses on both its faces. What a laughable waste of resources. The creature — it was no longer human — had foolishly sacrificed its very nature to craft lying reflections of itself. That was a distortion which the enchanted glass held in the lowest esteem.

The Mirror of Erised could comprehend any emotion — and experience not a few — for so its creator had determined. But it did not have the capacity to hate, though it understood the passion extremely well. And if ever there had been a twisted image that deserved to be the focus of such a fierce sentiment, this cracked thing did. The walking atrocity, sustained by the stolen blood of unicorns, was a mass of lusts, many of them contradictory — but ruling over them all, iron-fisted, was the gnawing hunger, the raging perverted greed for its own continuance. So in sum: the mirror did not find Voldemort fearsome — it found him tiresome. Was this all that such a daring and ambitious intellect could manage? Simply to keep on going? And that only to satisfy an equally repugnant craving to shatter things — just for the infantile pleasure of beholding them destroyed? Repulsive.

The pitiful host was worse — if such could be imagined. It lacked even the monster's creative impulse. All it wanted was to present the Philosopher's Stone to its revolting master. Pathetic slave. It was a toss-up, the mirror concluded. From some angles, Voldemort was really no better than his contemptible minion: he saw himself, all-powerful and eternal. A high goal, perhaps. But that was _all_ he wanted. There were no substantive desires. Other than the base urge to wanton destruction, of course. But the mirror had already dismissed that as meaningless — desire to no purpose counted for nothing to the Mirror of Erised.

Yet Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter were somehow EQUALS as well. In the unfathomably clear thinking of the charmed invention it was undeniable — they were strange mirror images each of the other. The reflections within reflections could not be denied. But the mirror could not take time to consider _those_ — no more than with Harry and Dumbledore. _N_ _ot now_. Contemplation of the boy himself was demanding all its attention and resources.

When the child had last beheld the mirror, his deepest yearning had been the return of his parents. Perfectly understandable for an orphan — and hardly the most unreasonable among all the impossible desires the mirror had revealed in all its long years. Harry had been tantalized, even obsessed, by the vision of what he could never have. Not at all strange. But the boy had grown in the months since he had spent those few nights gazing at the unattainable. And he could see beyond himself now. Dumbledore had helped him, advised him — and Harry had wisely taken the old man's good counsel to heart. He had held on to his dreams — the mirror could see that. But Harry could see _himself_ much more clearly now — and he also had a healthy respect for the mirror's powers — which satisfied the mirror immensely. It was rare to see such insight — and unheard of in one so young. This was why the mirror was never intended to be approached in solitude.

But Harry Potter had glimpsed the headmaster's purpose by virtue of his heart's desire, or so the mirror reckoned it. The boy had seen himself holding the Philosopher's Stone — because he had greatly desired it — and because (this had been the key) he had no intention of using it, the mirror had given it to the boy.

The Headmaster's spellwork had been masterful — and bolstered by his keen desire to protect the stone from wicked desires — so the change, the capacity to hold a thing of matter within its surface of reflection, had manifested. It was the first alteration that the mirror had permitted to itself since the Instructor's Inscription so very long ago: erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi, seen in the script of the beholder's mother tongue. It had been clever and well-designed, a mirrored thing of sorts, and helpful, so the mirror had accepted it. But only God can make a perfect thing — or so the saying goes.

A mirror tasked to display the inner desire, rather than just the outer appearance, of an individual beholder — _only_ to the vision of that same beholder — no matter how many viewers might be present at any one time, since it could respond equally to each of them simultaneously — had no means to distinguish when it was appropriate to discharge a Philosopher's Stone. Not before the fact anyway. And Dumbledore had not provided for an acceptable recipient being in the company of the very wicked desire from whom he'd hoped to withhold the hidden treasure. In fairness, the mirror was uncertain if any wizard could have conceived a means to do so.

So the stone had landed in Harry's pocket while the very enemy who most desired to use it was right beside him. The emanation of the stone from within the mirror had been unavoidable — because the precondition had been satisfied. The Headmaster could have guarded his mind against such an eventuality, but a boy of eleven could not possibly have done so. Children, after all, can only think so fast. And hardly comprehend the consequences of their desires. The mirror had seen Dumbledore's desire in the modification, of course. And it was a worthy longing — to keep the Philosopher's Stone from Voldemort. But nonetheless, the stone was currently on the _outside_. Many desires cannot be fulfilled.

The mirror knew the old wizard, himself something of a Light reflection of the Dark monster — though not THE EQUAL BUT OPPOSITE that Harry Potter was. And the boy was already a somewhat-reflection of the good old man — though he was so very much more. It was a pleasure to consider the turns in the reflections of those two light ones. But soul differed from soul in myriad ways — and the Mirror of Erised knew better than to gaze for long on those concatenations whenever it spied them. And it certainly did not have the luxury or leisure to do so now.

It had never had a life and death struggle between two living beings play out before it in full view. That made a significant difference to it. Though it wasn't sure why. Its function was to understand the desires of others, not its own. But it had to be PREPARED — because the boy was looking into it with an intensity that it had never once beheld.


	2. How the mirror came to understand

[ _But it had to be PREPARED — because the boy was looking into it with an intensity that it had never once beheld._ ]

For the Mirror of Erised — a perceptive, thinking and feeling magical masterpiece — sifting through a lifetime of desires and ordering them from least to greatest was the work of a moment. So its moments could be very, very, very full before it felt the press of time. And it was using those moments well, exercising that aspect of itself as it never had before. Its nature was to consider. To reflect. It was a mirror, was it not? But all its faculties were being challenged.

Voldemort, it had come to understand, was not simply power-mad. Denying the undeniable, the essential opposites — good and evil, life and death, right and wrong — had brought his irretrievably darkened, shattered soul deep into the heartland of insanity. Mirrors and children could understand simple things about reality that this falsely-wise fool could not. The Mirror of Erised had seen lines of breakage in many a personality — but no being had ever presented such an evil visage of desire. He was not very interesting. But he was unstable — and formidable. And a current lethal threat to the boy. This disturbed the mirror in a way that it was still seeking to articulate.

Quirrell, the simpering host with no genuine desires of its own was bad — of course. But to the mirror's mind, he barely deserved a spare thought. (The fool had thought to break it. As if he could, scoffed the mirror — properly pleased with itself. The Mirror of Erised would be no more easily destroyed than the loathsome fragments-of-self that the offender against nature had sheared off of his own malignant soul. They were lamentably fortified. Seeing them endure was notable among the Darker one's subsidiary desires.) But the body of the servant served the master, so Quirrell's being could not be entirely dismissed.

Harry Potter. More than anything else in the world, the boy had wanted to find the stone before Quirrell did — so that Voldemort could never use it. He had been determined to lie to keep the stone safe. The boy was perfectly capable of being deceptive, of course, but it was hardly his preference. Another point in his favour as far as the mirror was concerned. Even if it brought forth images that could not themselves be true — its nature required it — the mirror showed things faithfully. It valued truth. The boy seemed to as well — at the heart of things. But the boy was scared. So the mirror had shown him a smiling reflection as it gave the stone into his pocket. The mirror had rightly reasoned that he would be pleased to attain his goal — so a smile was rendered a moment before it was fully rooted in reality. The mirror had a bit of leeway in how fulfilled desires might be presented to a beholder. Under such terrifying circumstances a smile had been pushing the limits. But it had been the proper thing to do. The mirror was sure of that.

For it was a brief and very grim satisfaction to know that the boy did not lie well. Voldemort's shrill craving for the Philosopher's Stone pierced Harry's inexpert deception before he had gone a handful of paces. Then the boy's desire to make a break for it with the small but heavy blood-red treasure in his pocket was, with jarring suddenness, met with that new and equal yearning to run for his life. Harry became more truly frightened than he ever had been. But bravery did bizarre things with desires. That was why the young wizard was so IMPORTANT for the magical mirror to behold and to ponder — and even to admire.

To see the pale and paralyzing, livid and glaring serpent-face. That must have been sheer terror for the young wizard. But, quick as lightning in the next moment, to rebuke the lying snake of a man as he defamed the boy's parents. That was perfect, unbounded courage. Even the horrid excrescence of shattered humanity could not maintain its mocking charade when faced with that. He hissed out an admission — Harry Potter was a true reflection of both his courageous parents. And yet much more, the mirror observed — it had verified that for itself — with knowledge gathered through several of the recent beholders. James and Lily Potter had been mature and hardened in battle. They had thrice defied this Dark Lord. Their considerable gifts, though not yet fully realized, had been fully trained. This was but a child. And as if to confirm for the mirror beyond any contestation, the boy shouted "NEVER!" at the villain's final coaxing to surrender. With that the mirror concluded its evaluations: it simply liked the boy. And he had the mirror's full support.

Harry sprang toward the flame door.

Voldermort screamed, "SEIZE HIM!"

Quirrell caught hold of the boy's wrist.

Harry yelled and struggled — as though he were being stabbed with hot needles.

Quirrell let go of him.

Again, Voldermort screamed, "SEIZE HIM!" And then yet again.

The mirror had really had quite enough of the scum.

Quirrell had been hunched over in pain, his fingers blistering before his eyes. But he had no will of his own. He lunged for Harry, knocked the boy clean off his feet, landing on top of him. And he began to strangle the child. The mirror _tensed_ — it knew not how.

Harry looked to be in horrible pain. But he was not alone in that respect. Quirrell was howling in bewildered agony. The hands that had been around the boy's neck were burned raw. He could not continue choking him. This pleased the mirror immeasurably — yet it could not bring itself to examine its own new thoughts. There was too much going on that was of greater importance.

The evil face screeched for its slave to kill — through a deadly curse. By instinct and with purpose that the young hero did not yet fully understand, Harry reached up and grabbed Quirrell's face. The anguished cry the wizard made, stronger than any yet, gave the mirror _hope_ — a feeling that it had not known it could enjoy until that moment. The same blistering, though more extensive, that had ruined his palms and the pads of his fingers was turning Quirrell's face a terrible shining red. And then understanding dawned — Harry now knew, as the mirror had already surmised: Quirrell could not touch his bare skin, not without suffering terrible pain and damage.

The boy jumped to his feet, comprehending that — somehow — he had the means to fight. If he could only hang on to the man's arm as tight as he could, his enemy would not be able to curse him and — perhaps — he would be burned even more. Or at least succumb to his still-burning injuries.

Harry tried to catch Quirrell by the wrist, but as he launched himself at the wizard, he missed his target — and tumbled. Harry did not know — and the mirror could not see — what had caused the boy to fail to latch on to the other wizard as he intended. Voldemort was screaming — "KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" Quirrell was screaming — in almost mindless and flailing torment. Harry was blind with pain — and exhausted. It was an impossible situation for any child to endure — let alone perform well in. That was reason enough. Or perhaps he happened to slip on a bit of Quirrell that had fallen to the ground. Whatever the reason, there, on that same ground, was Harry.

All this the Mirror of Erised had seen — in the longest string of moments it had ever experienced. For it had never known suspense. The spectacle was riveting. The wrongdoers were despicable. And the boy was magnificent. The mirror found him fascinating. It had considered him from every angle — and admired every facet of his being. But fascinated consideration, and even admiration, were not what Harry Potter desired. He was beyond merely desiring. He needed not to lose. He needed not to die.

In all those moments — as it thought and felt and remembered and compared and analyzed and concluded and understood — as it REFLECTED — the Mirror of Erised had been preparing itself — though it had only recognized that in its fullness when the boy's green eyes stared straight into its depths. It had been preparing to fulfill its creator's ultimate intention.

After nearly a thousand years of waiting, the Mirror of Erised was not to SHOW a beholder his heart's desire — but to GRANT it. For Harry Potter was worthy.


	3. How the mirror dealt with darkness

[ _After nearly a thousand years of waiting, the Mirror of Erised was not to SHOW a beholder his heart's desire — but to GRANT it. For Harry Potter was worthy._ ]

The Mirror of Erised had never known a moment to overflow. SO much feeling and perfect desire and NEED. It could save the boy and the stone, fulfilling both of the young wizard's keen desires by destroying the fiend — which it would find supremely satisfying, truth be told. But Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, was doing very well on his own, thank you very much. So the mirror, though prepared to act, did not. The unholy fusion that was Quirinus Quirrell with the Dark Lord Voldemort was disintegrating. Irretrievably. If the boy had caught hold as he'd intended, he would probably have finished the job in no time flat. Perhaps in some diverging reality — the mirror knew that the arithmantic calculus of refractions allowed for other macrocosms — the battle might already be ended. Instead, the stripling wizard was sprawled on the ground, twin emeralds fixed upon the mirror with a look of unmatched determination. And the crumbling Quirrell, insane with agony and possessing no genuine will of his own, was still coming up behind him, driven by the vicious single-mindedness of his parasitic lord.

Harry could not realize, in that jam-packed moment, that he was guaranteed to win the fight — even though he'd failed to grab onto Quirrell. And STILL he was committed to keeping the Philosopher's Stone safe. What a wonderful (if perhaps overzealous) lad! The stone, now free of his pocket, was in his hand. He was putting it back into the mirror's surface! Clever. But Quirrell had seen what Harry was doing and shifted his focus and movement — to make his own last grab for the stone. Then, all at once, in a feat of perfect timing — the likes of which only Magic itself can orchestrate — the Mirror of Erised was yet again surprised: the Philosopher's Stone, Harry's hand and Quirrell's hand all touched the glass in the same instant.

Ah, storybook perfection — and patience rewarded. Both happened so rarely in the real world, the mirror knew. For it was now no longer a bit of the scenery. It had actually become a player in the real-life fairytale. It would even be the very stage for a little while. And it was going to ENJOY this. Perhaps its creator had a touch of the seer. It would never know. Great Works differed. The Sorting Hat was imbued with the values and deliberative powers of all four founders — and a touch of Godric's personality. But the Sword of Gryffindor was simply a formidable magical weapon. Hufflepuff's Cup — it was powerfully enchanted to impart the old girl's healing virtue to potions that were offered in it, but Helga's loyal and hard-working soul was absent. Likewise Ravenclaw's Diadem, though it carried a seed of Rowena's own wisdom, had nothing of her witty self about it. (Pity that Helena hadn't seen fit to come home with it. There would have been no "secret" of its whereabouts — and Voldemort could never have obtained the treasure, to defile it with a ghastly splinter of himself. No matter. Because Voldemort knew its location, the mirror now knew. It was going to be a very fulfilling day.) Slytherin's Locket, on the other hand, held much of Salazar's cunning disposition within it and could counsel the wearer in achieving ambitions — IF the wearer spoke Parseltongue, that is. The Quill of Acceptance and the Book of Admittance, the parting gift of the Twin Headmasters, Cosmas and Damian Silverlace — yet another set of wombmates with the pranking urge. They delighted to argue admissions throughout their long tenure — and never wanted to give it up. So they bequeathed to Hogwarts, willy-nilly, their good judgement — and argumentative natures. The Goblet of Fire, of course. Fiammetta Gannetmead had been a very powerful headmistress, but rather full of herself — thought she was something of a Solomon when it came to making impartial decisions for faculty and students — but she was actually quite the control freak. "Her heart is snares and nets, her hands as bands" someone said of her. She was also easily duped and none too bright a spark — in the mirror's opinion. The Veil and the Hallows were much the same — though it knew precious little about them. But the Mirror of Erised knew a great deal — though far from everything — about itself.

The Hogwarts Four were incomparably talented and powerful — the greatest wizards and witches of the age — the greatest since Merlin. They were all superb teachers as well. But they were rubbish when it came to administration. They admitted as much themselves. Well, Godric, Rowena and Helga had. Salazar wouldn't have conceded that he liked green. So handling the fiddly details, which had really started piling up after a hundred years, fell to the newly hired Mental Arts ("I'm also fairly good at Numerology") master — who, it turned out, had the knack for it. In fact, it was he that kept the school running (and in decent repair) all through the Strife. So when things had settled (a year and a day it was) after Salazar's departure, it was a tired trio that approached him — and told him that he was henceforth the HEAD master. They continued teaching, of course, and taking the occasional apprentice, but they were true to their word — and left the management of Hogwarts to him — even deferred to him. They never lost their love for the school and its students, but they had lost the enjoyment, the zest, of being its Founders. Salazar's obstinacy had taken an awful toll.

So — the First Headmaster of Hogwarts. He spent most of the next century helping students to know their own minds — never an easy job. (Running the school was child's play compared to that.) And he came to recognize that most students never made the time to take a good long look at themselves — and consequently left his school not really knowing what they truly wanted out of life. He had become a master of his art — of several, in fact. He had been a very good teacher. He had preserved Hogwarts through a very troubled time. He had set it on the path to being the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry the world had ever known. (The Four had been the finest teachers, of course. But it was he that had made it the finest school — despite the disunity he had been handed.) HE had achieved his heart's desire — DESIRES — and he had wanted that opportunity for all the students that came to Hogwarts after he was gone. So he'd set upon the Great Work.

If there is a single attribute an enchanted looking glass should not possess it's vanity. There were stories — about how twisted things can become when a sentient mirror thinks itself beautiful or wise. The First Headmaster of Hogwarts was not at all a prideful man, but magic can have strange effects on the likeness of a human psyche, so difficult decisions had to be made. Long after the choices of unbreakable glass over imperishable bronze and standing versus handheld had been made, the First Headmaster was still deliberating as to which aspects of himself he wanted for his Mirror of Choices — for so he called it while it was being designed.

Giving up his gender had been a tough decision, but a wise one. Just one girl looking into him whose HEART'S DESIRE was to be a wife and mother (rather than the Charms, or whatever, prodigy she actually was) and he'd have cracked under the strain. But in fairness to the feminine, he'd been a bit of a rascal in his youth and he was fairly certain that he had a child or two (or three) on the continent — but had never actually played the part of Father to any of them. So much for masculine virtue. Gender had to go. He was to become IT. Relationships gone. Only the knowledge of relating and its consequences — the persons that had been known had to go. Origins — homeland, home, family, friends — gone. National prejudices and clan loyalties would not do for a school that opened its doors to all the magicals of the whole world. (The mirror did have something of a preference for Little Britain — though it didn't know why.) It's own personal and professional accomplishments and preferences. That had been the hardest, the mirror knew. But when all had been decided, even its own name was lost to it. It simply thought of itself as Mirror. (Not even Erised — that was a later addition, of course.) For that had been the only way to ensure proper place for the beholder's desires — and to order them appropriately — and to store and compare them indefinitely: the essence of being without the particulars of personality, that had been the key. Such a magical mind could contemplate all desires without judging them — which would have hardly been fair to ones so young. So THAT was the intellect-image that the First Headmaster had impressed into the Mirror.

There were a few wrinkles. Bridget Wenlock had been one of its — his at the time — brightest students. The First Headmaster had taken her as an apprentice in Numerology — with a memory like hers, a Mental Arts mastery hadn't even been given a sniff. But she had been brilliant — was one of the first theoretical arithmancers. It had been a great pleasure to impart knowledge to her. So it wasn't at all perturbed that she had given it no credit for discovering the inherent patterns in the magical properties of the number seven which it (then-he) had taught her. It was completely losing track of the magical properties of three and eleven — 11! — and never publishing or even theorematizing them. That still frosted its glass. If its psyche ever made it to the other side, it would definitely be giving Bridget Wenlock some choice words, that's for sure. So there were vestiges of personality like that popping up from time to time — and a very profound sense of right and wrong — but otherwise, the mirror was simply Mirror.

What it had NOT known about itself was just how powerful it was — and that it would not understand the purpose for all that it had ever understood and reasoned out and through — until the time was right. Not just right, but perfect: To help a needy student to fulfill his (or her) most desperate desire in his (as it turned out) time of greatest need. The First Headmaster had gotten the idea from Godric Gryffindor — and had liked it enough to set apart the lion's share of the mirror's power for that very purpose. He had not been the puissant wizard that Gryffindor was — there weren't but a handful like him in all of human history, so that was no shame — but the First Headmaster hadn't been anybody's slouch either. The legacy of an indomitable sword, mighty in magic and second only to Excalibur, that would appear in courageous hands whenever it was called upon — that would have been beyond him. But a single omnipotence, to meet a student's soul's desire? Not as easy as Helga's treacle tart — but entirely achievable. And, with Dumbledore's artful augmentations, much more could be accomplished than the mirror's creator had ever envisioned — and the time was NOW.

* * *

Harry found himself hurtling through the mirror. He had never seen an Alice-Looking-Glass-Wonderland movie or he'd have thought it was just like that. He was sporting a slight glow.

Voldemort and Quirrell found themselves landing on the other side of the mirror's surface — in the same room — or one very much like that they had just departed. Quirrell was still dressed in dark purple. Voldemort was all in black. They might have looked grave and dangerous, the two of them (especially with the toady's wounds and the bigwig's red eyes). But they looked, if not quite silly, hardly threatening. They were joined at the hip. It was just comical enough that Harry was completely at ease.

The Philosopher's Stone hung in the air between them. Not like a chandelier, but like a star that had come down to see what was going on. And a bit like a snitch, not golden, but a brilliant blood red that looked fresh and alive. It was much more a jewel now — and very bright.

The mirror had had its speech all prepared — it was nothing if not good in a pinch — but in the moment of crossing-into, it had spied something that astounded beyond anything it had yet experienced. It had rendered the appearances of the three and the stone, but held back on this detail: for it had nothing of the boy's desire in it — and much of the monster's.

There, on Harry's forehead, WITHIN the lightning-bolt scar, was a lying reflection, a sliver-shard of the inhuman disgrace that was Voldemort. It was unmistakable — it resonated with his vile being. The mirror had not realized that it could experience nausea. Particularly strange, that — it not having a stomach and all. It was no matter though. The assault against life and magic could never have done any harm within the confines of the mirror — and it certainly could not NOW with the mirror at the height of its powers, finally ignited to fulfill its creator's ultimate purpose.

"Hello Harry." The voice came from everywhere.

"Hello. Who are you?"

"I am the mirror. It is an honour to meet you. You are very brave — and a very good mate." It hardly seemed worthwhile to wax eloquent with the boy about his altruism. "I must do something. It will not hurt you, I promise. Nothing can hurt you here. But it may feel strange or even unpleasant. May I?

The boy didn't hesitate. Not even a moment. "Sure. You've already helped me a lot. Do what you need to do." The boy smiled — accepting a needful discomfort was his way of thanking the mirror — or so the mirror reckoned — and it did not like the fact that he was so inured to hardship. But the mirror would deal with that in the days to come. The mirror, within itself, reached within Harry Potter.

The boy's mother had never beheld the mirror, but it knew enough of her through Dumbledore's and McGonagall's and Flitwick's rapport with it, that it knew her love well enough. It had already rendered that love as the soft glow upon Harry's skin — it was HER desire, resting over him. (The mirror did not know how her desire had lived on beyond her — but love was a mystery — and as strong as death. Or stronger, it would appear.) And that love reached deeper than the skin and had done much to protect the boy amidst an inexcusable childhood — all the way through to fending off Quirrell, her love burning as though it were flame. She. It. She — it was hard to tell with love — had surrounded the snippet of evil soul even as it entered the boy's forehead — and made the lightning wound. The darkness had been embattled from that moment forward — for a lifetime — and the force that warred against it was awesome in its power. It had never been able to manifest a single twisted thought or emotion, a single cruel desire — the mirror liked that — let alone been able to mount a campaign for possession. Though irretrievably foul by nature, it was left practically inert. The mirror, it decided, would have adored Lily Potter. And what was more, her love seemed to discern the mirror's benevolent intentions — they were kindred spirits, as it were, united in their common interest — Harry's welfare. So it parted, just enough, to allow the mirror to touch the loathsome black thing — there was no other way to render it — and surround it with binding power. And so it manifested just outside Harry's scar — and moved away from the boy. There, the mirror soothed, to the almost-living desire, I have it now. It will never hurt him again, I promise. I shall unmake it in a moment.

"THAT. IS. MINE. GIVE IT TO ME."

You-Know-Who was miffed. Do tell. The mirror was more delighted than it had ever known. But still furious. "Silence. You vile thing. You botch-up. You spot. You— turd!" Harry giggled. He couldn't help it. And it made him feel better. When the mirror told Voldemort to be quiet the edges of the room that wasn't a room — it was only what the mirror could 'see' of the room, Harry realized — had flashed lightning and roared with terrible thunder. It was the first fear Harry had known inside the mirror.

The mirror, for its part, knew that it had frightened the boy as it was speaking — and had sought to lighten the mood. When Dumbledore had introduced his changes, he had altered the mirror in a fundamental way. The old man was a better magician than even he knew — he simply couldn't NOT do things well. And elegance required that there be no loose ends: so the mirror could not only contain material things because of those changes, but manipulate their essence as well. This had amplified its abilities considerably. Dumbledore had no way to know the incredible reservoir of power that the mirror held within — it had been hidden perfectly. Even a master arithmancer could not have spotted it. A Charms Master, perhaps. The First Headmaster had utilized something like a Numerological Fidelius, the Secret of which was kept in answers to questions that had yet to be asked — from a certain point of view. Dumbledore was only a Master of Transfiguration — which inclined him to brilliant evolutions but not to the niceties of exquisite foundations. (Perhaps, the mirror thought, the First Headmaster had let an academic bias or two squeak by, after all.) In any case, when the mirror was angry — which it most certainly was — it had never known such fury as it had for Voldemort — there was, of necessity — due to Dumbledore's reshapings — a manifestation of power.

"It is yours only in the sense that it reeks of you. You shall never again possess it." More gently: "I shall explain all these things to you in just a little bit, Harry. There is nothing here that YOU ought to be afraid of."

Then there shone a strange, colourless light that filled the whole room. The joined bodies became two. Quirrell was frozen with dread as the lump of soul-tar flew into his being. Voldemort, looking very human with nothing of the snake about him, was in shock. The red eyes turned a confused, human brown.

"You have snared yourself to this plane of existence in a fashion that even I cannot untangle — not with Harry, YOUR EQUAL, here within the mirror. So I cannot take your life or your magic. More's the pity: you of all the beings I have ever beheld deserve both death AND a squib's magicless misery. But it is my great pleasure to help Death, by smoothing your way toward him — and to strip you of every one of your magical possessions under my dominion here. You brought nothing into this world, Tom Riddle, and it is certain you will carry nothing out. I am glad to have done you a damage from which you shall never recover."

"Quirrell, you made yourself entirely your lord's. That was a woeful error. You, his darkened chattel — and the noxious plop of him that I have put upon you — and every black title to every black mark branded on every black soul that performed his wicked pleasure — are no more."

Harry saw Quirrell quickly fade to nothing. And Voldermort — his face a silent scream — was floated to the mirror, where he flattened against it till he was thinner than parchment — and hung there without going through.

"We have many things to talk about, you and I — Harry Potter."

"But I have only one last thing to say to you, Tom Riddle. You shall be defeated. And you shall DIE. Because you are evil and hateful and proud and selfish and spiteful and terrified — and petty. So let this drive you mad, Little Diddle: I know your EVERY desire — and that you are a fool — and that you never learned a simple truth that every child hears at Hogwarts — Draco Dormiens Nvnqvam Titillandvs"


End file.
